The Bathroom Mirror
by ink and ashes
Summary: Somewhere along the way, Michael has lost count. Mature audiences, only. Written for the Inferno Challenge on Roswell Heaven.


_The Bathroom Mirror_

**THE SIN: **Lust

The first time, he swore, had been an accident.

Nothing would tell him otherwise.

_Nothing_.

He'd ventured away from Maria to grab some refreshments, a product of too much dancing and nerves that had not allowed him to ingest anything before this ridiculous gathering called Prom. The dancing had not been as awful as he'd imagined, even after he was sure he'd never do it again during those annoying lessons, but he hated being the center of attention and amidst the bumping and wiggling mass of teenagers, he felt like a giant awkwardly fumbling around in the darkness. Even with Maria encouraging him—and huffing at him when he stepped on her toes—it was not enough to convince him to stay there, allowing Kyle to keep his girlfriend company for the time being.

She burst into the gymnasium, her artful curls and flushed cheeks coming into focus immediately. It was always that way with her, much to his chagrin; whenever she was near, whenever she spoke, whenever she was across the damn room and lost among the crowd of people that separated them, Michael was always aware of her. It pissed him off most days and just exasperated him on others, but by the tears in her wide, doe eyes, this annoying habit of his had finally paid off. He placed the Styrofoam cup back onto the lavishly decorated table from whence he'd grabbed it and studied her, surprised when her gaze tore through the bullshit of the happy party-goers to zero in on him with desperation. He stared back, alarmed and confused, until she turned on her heels and ran back out the room, pushing against the bodies that blocked her path.

What the hell? What the _fuck_ had happened out there?

He did not think twice, maneuvering through the suffocating people that got in his way and blatantly throwing the few too drunk to notice his eagerness to get by. Once he barreled through the sturdy wood doors, he skidded to a halt in the corridor, scanning each direction before catching sight of Maxwell in an intense physical session with a petite blonde he knew was Tess. _Good for them_, he allowed with a snort, continuing his search. He brushed past the two would-be lovers, jogging down the hall until he saw a blur of ebony silk, followed by the telltale slam of a door. His eyes narrowed when he realized the location. The eraser room?

Of all the idiotic places to hide…

Michael drove a hand through his slicked back hair, scratching his scalp in frustration and thoroughly ruining his clean-cut appearance for the night. If there was a crisis, he deduced, it was nothing life-threatening if Elizabeth Parker decided to hole herself up in the _eraser room_. That place was known for one thing, and it had nothing to do with erasers.

It was probably something to do with the tonsil hockey match he'd witnessed in his frenzy to follow her. That still did not make any sense, as he was well aware of her transgression with Kyle Valenti that had torn their alien King and their residential science geek apart, but who knew with women? Dating Maria had taught him that women _never_ did anything the easy way, always complicating the situation until what was once a small issue had turned into an international problem of apocalyptic proportions. If Liz was sobbing in that damn closet they called a room, it was her own fault in the first place. How could someone as intelligent as Liz Parker forget that it was her own betrayal that had sent her love into the arms of the willing Tess Harding? Why would she be surprised at the outcome? Did she think men would just fawn all over her, taking her shit and waiting for her to bestow her affection whenever she wished?

Michael found himself stalking towards her hiding spot, in spite of his steadfast refusal to do so. He was not a nanny and Maria was much better suited for this chick stuff than he could ever be, but his feet kept walking and he was powerless to stop. What the hell was he going to say to her? He'd be damned if he offered her any comfort for her own stupidity, and he would _not_ be her shoulder to cry on. Even as he turned the knob, he told himself to check on her and just leave. One quick look and get it over with.

She was panting, as if she had just run a marathon. The tease of cosmetics he'd spied earlier had been wiped away at some point, leaving only a thin line of black to surround those huge lashes and her ridiculously large eyes. Michael was honest enough to admit—at times—that Elizabeth Parker was an attractive young woman, even more so without the assistance of make-up, but looking at her now… watching her stare at him silently, her chest rising and falling in a staccato beat… in a gown that contoured to her every curve… tendrils of bouncing waves covering her upturned face…

She was breathtaking. _Stunning_.

Michael cleared his throat, shaking away the observation. He opened his mouth to… well, he could not remember now. He doubted he ever would, because Liz, beautiful, gorgeous, _insane_ Liz Parker had thrown—in retrospect, the correct term would be closer to _jump_—herself at him, her lips crashing against his with a fervor that sent jolts of shock down his spine. The clever little opportunist slid her tongue between his teeth, taking full advantage of his frozen horror—_not_ delight… definitely _not_ excitement, either—to gain entry and thoroughly taste him before his mind could kick start his limbs into action. "What—" He grasped her arms, trying to unwind them from his neck. "—the—" She thwarted him by sinking her fingers into his hair, forcing his head back as he fought to speak around her hungry kisses. He tried to disentangle the legs wrapped around his abdomen, but failed in that venture as well. "—_fuck_?"

This was _not_ what he had planned.

She somehow pulled them into the room, using the doorframe as an anchor. "Shut up," she breathed into his ear, nipping at a tender lobe he had never known was so damn sensitive. How did she know to _do_ that? His senses came alive with force a that terrified him. Was she a shapeshifter? The Liz he knew would _never_—

Where the hell had she learned to do that with her tongue?

His thoughts were fuzzy and disjointed, his hands alternatively trying to push her away and pull her closer. Her teeth were teasing the cartilage of his ear, her fingers unbuttoning his shirt with ease; the sharp, sweet scent of her filled his nostrils, corrupting his logic, blinding him to all but her tight, compact little frame and the warmth unfurling against his stomach at the apex of her thighs. "Liz," he moaned and was furious with himself at the notable waver in his voice. "_Liz,_ what the…" he trailed off when her teeth found a new perch beneath his jaw. There must have been something really, _really_ wrong with the people that had created this human body, because her sucking on his neck—in that particular spot—should not make him cup her round, firm posterior. Should not make him long to claw off the dress that bunched around her hips. Should not make him yearn to chuck his confining pants and do something that they would both regret.

A hiss escaped him in a knee-jerk reaction to her scraping her nails down his exposed chest—she was _quick_—and that brief, pleasurable sting was enough to wrench his palms away from the breast they'd travelled to while he wasn't looking. With a grunt, he grabbed her shoulders and viciously yanked her away from him, uncomfortable with the amount of effort it took to separate her from doing that _thing_ she had been doing so damn well.

"_What the fuck are you doing?_" He barely recognized his voice. It was too deep, too throaty and entirely too loud.

Her eyes were glazed over and it had not passed his notice that her legs—those long, toned, _delicious_ legs—had yet to leave him, something he was both angry and infinitely glad for. She was still breathing erratically, but for entirely different reasons now and that subtle blush he'd spied upon finding her had spread below that enticing neckline. "If I'm…" she huffed, her eyelids shuttered, "if you know you're going to jail for a crime you didn't commit, wouldn't you want to _commit_ the crime?"

His hold on her slackened in his confusion. What the hell was she talking about? "Uh…" Michael took a moment to clear away the haze. "Yeah. I guess. I mean, if… I'm gonna do the time, I might as well make the most of it."

She nodded, expecting his response.

He glared at her. "What the _fuck_ does that have to do with—?"

It was a mistake to loosen his grip on her; she broke free and silenced him, devouring his inquiry and his protests with it. "_That's what I'm doing,_" she murmured, soft peals of moistened skin dancing across his mouth, his cheek, his chin. Still reeling, he allowed her to slide his half-buttoned, still-tucked shirt off of his shoulders, pulling the fabric away from him when he took too long; if Liz Parker had decided to unleash her promiscuous side, then so be it. Fuck everything else.

None of it made any sense to him, _nothing_ Liz Parker did ever made sense to him anymore, but his body did not give a shit about her reasoning or why it was suddenly so wrong to tear the garment from her breasts with a loud, audible rip. Why it was so wrong to suckle on the straining bud of her nipple while his hand explored its twin. Why it was _so_ _goddamned_ _wrong_ to reach blindly behind him to slam the door he'd completely forgotten about shut before returning to the curve of her spine. He should be walking away from her and those alluring little moans, those strangled gasps he tore from her throat that made him want to hear more. He should be throwing her aside and demanding that she stop this, right _fucking_ now, before things got farther than he'd ever taken them before. With anyone. He could not control himself and for once, instead of destroying random inanimate objects, he was able to apply it to the situation at hand.

Her little black panties—lace, some part of him rumbled with appreciation—were easy enough to take care of and neither one of them cared when the undergarment clung to a single thigh in vain. Her pelvis kept rubbing against him in languid, reflexive arcs that drove him mad while he nibbled at the valley between her breasts; nails tested and broke skin, lips found purchase wherever they could, bodies grinding against each other shamelessly until she reached between then and unbuckled his belt. An eternity passed as she popped off the button, as she pulled down the zipper, as her—_holy fucking shit—_small hands wrapped around his engorged appendage.

Michael lost it.

He grabbed a fistful of her soft hair, taking command of their sloppy, wet kiss. Her mewl nearly undid him, right then and there, and with a quick tilt of his hips, he surged into her with all of the finesse of a rampaging bull. She screamed into his mouth, her hands digging into the muscles of his back as he registered her body's fragile resistance to his intrusion.

She was tight—_so goddamn tight_—around him that it bordered on pain. A whimper that erupted from her throat forced him to disconnect their fused jaws, a long, thin line of saliva tying them before it finally broke. Through the foggy lens of his eyes, he took in the agony written on her beautiful face and tried to steady himself, his breath as crazed as her own. "You're a…" he couldn't say it, couldn't think it. "_Fuck_, Liz, why didn't you _fucking_…" he squeezed his eyes shut when he felt the muscles inside of her clench and unclench experimentally, adjusting to his girth. He desperately clamped onto her waist, forcing her to hold still. "You didn't fucking tell me," he growled, exhaling through his teeth. He was doubly ignored by both her and himself when she let out a high, keening whine, her pelvis writhing in tantalizing circles.

Anything resembling coherent thought flew out of the proverbial window; he slid out of her scalding channel slowly, testing, and pulled her back down to the hilt. The snail's pace lasted for barely a moment before her impatience took over and she used her own weight to heighten the mouthwatering friction between them. He groaned, covering his face in the curve of her neck.

It was better than chocolate bars drenched in Tabasco. Better than pepperoni pizza with habenero peppers, even.

It felt _so damn_ good.

Not one to be outdone, he slid a palm to the small of her back, effectively stilling her movement. Predictably, she complained and bitched and muttered a thousand different broken sentences that would make her blush when he repeated them to her on a later date, but _he_ was the one in charge here. _He _was the one fucking _her_, a point he eagerly emphasized by pounding viciously into her core until she was screaming his name… over and over and over again. Pure, masculine pride swelled in his chest to hear that unhinged wail roll over her tongue, keeping him steady when he felt her muscles flutter and squeeze around him, milking him dry. Kept him standing when his vision was flooded with stars and golden mountains twinkling in the sunset, with thick, ebony lakes and hundreds of faces he recognized but could not name.

They stood silent and dazed, even an hour after their frenzied coupling. When his ears stopping ringing, when the euphoric relaxation had finally worn off and his blood had cooled, reality hit him like a ton of bricks, knocking the wind out of his sails. Michael helped her slide off of him with a gentleness that contradicted his previous actions, grimacing at the blood dripping down her leg. _Virgin's_ blood. If he had not been flaccid, he was sure the sight of that would have stunted any reaction he would have had towards her otherwise.

Liz could barely stand, he noted, completely disgusted with himself.

She waved him away when he offered his assistance, knowing that her legs had probably lost feeling after curling around him for so long. Her panties slipped down onto the floor and she balled them up, staring at them in contemplation until he grabbed the souvenir and shoved it in his pocket for future disposal. Or reminiscence. "I'm fine," she assured him, but her voice cracked horribly on the words.

"Bullshit," he harrumphed at her, fixing his pants. Where the hell had she thrown his shirt?

Her eyes were strong and proud despite how her tattered gown lay in shreds around her waist, exposing her small breasts and taut belly. He wanted to take her again, right there, _right now_, but he calmed himself before he tackled her. He watched her fiddle with the material, raising an eyebrow at his blatant perusal. She'd caught him staring. "Would you mind…?"

Mind what? Mind fucking her again? _Hell no_. In fact, he was ready for round two, but she motioned towards what had once been a zipper. She wanted him to fix the damage he'd caused—the damage _she'd_ instigated—when all he wanted to do was sink into her velvet folds once more and lose himself the ecstasy of her skin. Wanted to find all of the crevices that made her spew a stream of filthy words with that provocative little mouth of hers. Wanted her to touch him with those ardent fingers until he lost all sense of time again. Wanted to make her scream his name for the entire school to hear… the _whole town_… "_Holy shit._"

She frowned at him. "You can't fix it?"

Michael blanched in horror. "_Maria…_" he whispered, eyes wide with realization. He had not thought of his girlfriend at all. Not _once_. He couldn't even blame it on the spiked punch.

Liz, in spite of her bravado, was shaking. "Jus… Just fix this, Michael. _Please_, just fix this."

He wasn't sure if she meant the dress or the situation, but both seemed way too fucked up for him to rectify.

_I got this feeling in my veins this train is coming off the track.  
>I'll ask polite if the devil needs a ride<br>Because the angel on my right ain't hanging out with me tonight…_

The second time, he'd been caught off guard.

After their Prom-night tryst, Michael had avoided her like the plague. It had taken every ounce of will he possessed to not follow her home and fuck her senseless on a bed, to further explore the possibilities when given extra mobility and a softer surface in comparison to the eraser room's wall. He felt like an asshole; he'd taken her virginity—something he could not fathom, since he'd been told she had slept with Kyle—and hadn't even thought to give her a ride home… and yet, even _that_ was not enough to quell his burning desire. Guilt and anger fought a violent war within him and he chose to simply ignore the overwhelming need to experience that mind-blowing sensation her body promised him.

No one knew about their mistake and he had every intention of keeping it that way, primal urges be damned.

He had not meant to look for her in the crowd, as he had for the meager two days since… well, since _then_. His eyes hunted for those chestnut tresses hungrily, searched for her olive skin and that perfect rear of hers. Those long, wonderful legs that wrapped perfectly… Michael shook himself, clenching his teeth in frustration. A growl escaped him and he scared a wide-eyed freshman crossing his path, the kid paling at the sight of Michael's fury and scurrying away like a frightening animal. _Fucking freshman_. Didn't they know _not_ to exist when he was in the middle of a mental breakdown? It was taking so much more than he had to give just to tamper down this raging arousal, to keep himself from grabbing every tiny brunette he could find by the collar of their shirts to check if it was her. From stalking back and forth in front of her locker like a caged lion—like _Max_—until she stopped hiding from him and pleased him the way only she knew how to.

"_Michael… Michael… yes! Oh, _God_, yes! Michael, please, please, pleasepleaseplease…! Michael!"_

"Michael!"

Maria's voice—_shit!_—broke him out of the spell he'd fallen under. "Wha…?" he asked dumbly, blinking his eyes a few times to clear the images that kept tormenting him.

Maria DeLuca, his girlfriend—_his girlfriend, _damn it—was frowning at him, her pouty lips pursing in irritation. "I've been calling you for an _hour_, Spaceboy!" He highly doubted that much time had passed, but her gift of exaggeration was something he knew would never change. He jerked in surprise when she waved a piece of paper in his face, one hand on her hip. "Your schedule. You know, for the Crash Down? _God_, you were such a sweetheart last night, and now you're back to completely ignoring me. What gives?"

Michael could not answer her, afraid of what he may reveal.

Maria scoffed, throwing his schedule at him and flouncing away. "I don't know why I even bother anymore."

_There_. He did not hear his girlfriend's parting words, his eyes catching a hint of mocha in his peripherals and targeting on the one person he swore he would never speak to again. Maria had only walked a few steps before he was possessed, quickly navigating the throng of humans to stop a few feet away from the aggravating, exasperating Elizabeth Parker, watching her intensely.

Liz was bending over, sipping from a water fountain outside of the girls' restroom. She was in a skirt that promised easy access and a simple top that exposed a narrow strip of her abdomen. All he had to do was hike up that flimsy skirt a little and he would have what he came for, _fuck _everyone else. If he was fast enough, he could tackle her into the lavatory only inches away before she could even yelp in protest; he knew how to lock a door, and it couldn't be _that_ hard to soundproof it… even if all of Roswell heard her, it probably wouldn't matter. Not right now. Not with the way he wanted her, and the way his plan seemed much too tempting to push aside.

It was enough to snap his fragile control.

With lightning-quick reflexes, he had her against the inside of the bathroom door before she could process what had happened. "No!" she cried against his mouth. "Michael, _no!_"

"You weren't complaining _before_," he rumbled and licked a long, straight line from her collarbone to her chin. She stopped fighting him instantly and grasped his arms, an undecipherable gargle stuck in her throat. _Good_, because he'd been fighting himself for far too long and she was going to finish what she had started, _damn it_, or he would go insane. With her acquiesce secured he lifted her easily in his arms, still lapping at her open mouth while he staggered towards a sink for leverage. "You're not allowed to wear pants anymore," was his muffled demand as he dragged his teeth across the tender skin of her neck.

"We're… we're not doing this again," she whispered, emitting one of those choked gasps he loved so much. Her eyes had rolled into the back of her head, burying her hands in his hair.

He tore off her tank top. "Should've thought of that before you wore _this_," he replied, pushing her skirt up her legs until he revealed her bright pink panties. Lace again? Had she been _expecting_ him to maul her?

Her words came out in a rush, spreading those honey thighs at his insistence. "I can wear whatever I _damn_ well—_Michael!_" He found her cry much more enjoyable to her meaningless logic; he would endeavor to touch her there, right where he had found incomparable pleasure, more often if it meant shutting up her infuriatingly reasonable mind. One large hand palmed her rapidly dampening underwear, snapping off the offending material to reach her hot, smooth skin. Her response was immediate and he loved the way she threw her head back, parting wide for him with a single caress.

When he spun her around, Liz, thankfully, did not question him, too intoxicated to care; she leaned against the bathroom mirror like a good girl, her haggard breath fogging the glass. It was a beautiful sight, one that spurred Michael to free himself and slide into paradise, reveling in the feel of her. He leaned forward, one hand bracing himself on the marble washbasin beneath her stomach when he started to move within her.

Once he found his rhythm, he straightened his spine and clutched a handful of her long, trailing hair. Amidst the roaring of his blood and her incomprehensible babbling, he watched her breasts bounce in time with his thrusts. Watched her small hands claw at the mirror, trying to find purchase and flailing when she found none. Watched her lovely mouth gape like a fish out of water, her eyes closed in the same bliss he'd been starving for since he'd walked away from her, since he'd _deflowered_ her, two nights ago. In the future, he would make it a point to find more places that would offer him the same, perfect view of her as he slowly fucked her brains out; there was nothing that could top admiring a quality-choice partner in mid-coitus when it was _he_ that put that healthy flush on her skin, _he_ that caused her to tremble and shake like that, _he_ that made the well-spoken Liz Parker beg him to _fuck _her.

Who was _he_ to deny such a request?

When the afterglow left them giddy with fulfillment, he panted against the soft plains of her back, absorbing the sweaty softness of her. The universe surrounded him in its eternal embrace as he flew past solar systems and dove through nebulous clouds at breakneck speeds. It was even _better_ than the last time, since he did not have that nagging guilt over hurting her. How was it possible for something to feel so fucking _amazing_? It was no wonder his peers were practically throwing themselves at the female populace all of the damned time.

Who needed drugs and alcohol, food and water, or even _air_ when you had girls like Elizabeth Parker that could—_literally_—paint the sky with stars?

_Your mom don't know that you were missing  
>She'd be pissed if she could see the parts of you that I've been kissing…<em>

The third time had occurred that night, on the counter in the Crash Down's kitchen after their doors had been closed and locked. The fourth time followed immediately afterward, Michael ripping open her little uniform and tossing her into the bathroom by their lockers when he heard her father clomping down the steps; that time had been one of the quieter ones, which was a bit of a disappointment, but he was rewarded with a sexy image of her biting her bottom lip to keep from screaming in delirium. In front of the mirror. The fear of being caught heightened their nerves in this ceaseless quest for satisfaction, making the conquest that much more enjoyable.

By the end of the week, he had a collection of balled up underwear hidden in his drawer, in every color, in every material imaginable. Why did she bother wearing them anymore? It made him chuckle whenever he glanced at the rainbow of trophies, lightening his mood instantly.

Her grades began to drop due to the mounting absences from class on her attendance record, which thwarted his in-school fun. He begrudgingly left her alone during academic courses, but the lunch hour was up for grabs and he shamelessly monopolized every second of it. The others never commented on their disappearance, since Max was avoiding Liz like she carried the Ebola virus and Maria simply assumed he was being his normal, asshole self… which suited him perfectly. He suspected that Isabel knew, maybe even Tess, but as long as they kept their mouths shut, he didn't give a shit.

Once, he watched Alex and Maria pull Liz aside and heard him loudly inquire—that boy could _not_ keep his voice down to save his life—about the bruise-like marks on her neck, which froze Michael in his tracks. Would she simply pass them off as Kyle's doing? Michael knew the rumor about Valenti and Parker was all bullshit, even if she had never told him the truth behind it, but there was _another_ rumor flying around about himself and Liz, which no one really believed… but he had to wonder if they'd ever been spotted; he knew once he caught wind of her, all morals and rationale were as good as dead, so it was a very real possibility. Michael listened, balking when Maria told Liz to quit lying, as she knew Liz had _never _been with Kyle—well, _that_ confirmed it—and that Max was hooking up with Tess left and right, so who the hell had given her those _trashy_ hickies? And why did she always ditch class? And why did she never have lunch with them? And had she seen Michael anywhere?

Liz, brilliant, beautiful, _wonderful_ Liz, had told Maria to mind her own business.

Michael took her home that night and fucked her for hours in light of a job well done.

_Got your hand between my knees  
>And you control how fast we go by just how hard you wanna squeeze…<em>

Somewhere around number thirty-four and forty-four, she finally got the hint about the panties: _don't wear them_.

Of course, that drove him even crazier knowing she was walking around without lingerie. He broke the no-nookie rule for school several times, but Liz was a smart girl and he was sure she'd be fine with a few extracurricular activities or an extra assignment or two. Working the graveyard shift was a constant cock-block that had him chomping at the bit till he could bolt out of the door and onto her favorite lawn chair; another piece of furniture he baptized in the name of Unapologetic, No-Strings-Attached Sex. Her shower came next—a veritable slip-and-slide of fun, giggly, _clean_ adultery—which quickly moved to the mirror positioned conveniently above her sink. She tried teasing him about his new mirror fetish, but flirting was not a part of their unspoken deal and he quickly distracted her in much more pleasant ways.

It was asked, in passing, if he was any good at soundproofing rooms. The answer was a resounding _no_. This inquiry was not unexpected, since he had spent twenty minutes squeezed beneath her cramped mattress so that her parents would not catch him. It wasn't _his_ fault Liz had a set of lungs on her when they were lost in the heat of the moment, and it wasn't _his_ fault her parents thought she was being murdered in her sleep when she'd exclaimed in pure joy, so why was _he_ getting that damn pout? He calmly informed her that he should buy her a muzzle. Her indignation had flared and she angrily declared this fuck-ship _over_.

He had broken down within the next half hour, swallowing back the bile of pride and apologizing.

In the end, it was worth it. His tongue tasted and caressed her most intimate hollows until she was screaming his name again, reminding him why he stubbornly ignored the fact that he was betraying his girlfriend, why she was betraying her _best friend_, why they kept harping at each other in public to keep up the illusion, why they rarely slept anymore. That pelvis of hers had some kind of mind warp on him, he was sure, but when he grunted between her legs and the addiction gave way to the awe-inspiring sensation of flying, it was really, _really_ hard to care.

_No, we're never gonna quit—  
>Ain't nothing wrong with it—<br>Just acting like we're animals…_

Alex's death was a cold shower to his fiery libido.

Michael was not, contrary to popular belief, _that_ much of a selfish prick. Maria needed him more than his hormones needed their fix—maybe not _more_, but there were priorities to consider—and Liz had completely gone off the deep end on her crusade to avenge their late friend. Everyone was fighting their own personal battles, completely lost in their own misery and trying to cope in whatever way they knew how. Michael knew what would take the edge off of his sorrow, but he needed the other participant in order for this to work. Unfortunately, he did not see that happening any time soon. It was a shame because he so desperately needed to lose himself in her now more than ever, but matters were spiraling out of control faster than he could keep up and before he knew it, Max was telling them that they had twenty-four hours before they left for a world they could not remember.

Michael wanted to whisk Liz away and get this _goddamned_ craving satiated; he'd never see her again, never feel her again, never taste her again. Just one more for the road, and he could go and play monkey in the circus called Antar without any regrets. _Maybe._

Max—yet another cock-block in his life—had different ideas.

While he doubted Liz would allow the same person who had impregnated another woman touch her, he could not help but question it. Self-proclaimed _soul mates_ were eternal, right? His body sang for her, roared for her, _demanded _her, but it would have to go without. While Max and Liz went off to play detectives to find Alex's killer once and for all, he decided to finally pay some long-awaited attention to his troubled girlfriend… the least he could do, since he was fucking her best friend behind her back. Maria was sweet and sentimental, not unlike Liz, and easy to coax into a slow burn of passion. She was as tight as he remembered Liz being that first time—and nearly every time after until her delicious body had gotten used to him and learned to accommodate accordingly since he never gave her a break—and it was highly pleasurable. Maria was soft and curvy in places where Liz was solid, pale where Liz was tanned. Michael could not help but compare the two, even noting the difference in their expressions, their reactions, their voices; when Maria gasped his name in ecstasy, it just wasn't the same.

Nevertheless, Michael made Maria's first time special and thoroughly enjoyed her feminine physique until she was spent. There were no stars for him, tonight. The time came for him to meet with his fellow extraterrestrials and he drove her home on his motorcycle, placing a tender kiss on her brow.

Liz was there, sitting on the DeLuca steps, curled into a ball. She looked completely miserable, not a hint of that becoming blush he knew she could never hide after she'd been plundered and—in his humble opinion—expertly plunged into the depths of madness they'd visited together so many times since that cataclysmic night against a wall when Michael had discovered that this human body had even more needs than he'd ever bargained for. The ravenous fire that leapt to the surface at the sight of her flickered when those doe eyes looked at him with such pain, such _emotion_ that he wondered how she did not shatter into pieces all over the DeLuca walkway. When Maria saw Liz sitting there like a broken china doll, she must have noticed her friend's distress and went to embrace Liz… but Liz was still staring at him. He had no doubt that she knew what had transpired, _knew_ why Maria had that slight hesitance in her step, _knew_ why he could not wrench his eyes away from her. It was Liz that broke their silent conversation, turning with Maria to enter the house, where Maria would probably regale her with tales and whatever else girls talked about.

_Shit_.

Well, he had done right by _one_ girl, at least. He couldn't win them all—and _he_ couldn't win _any_—so it would have to be a consolation prize, lest he turn this damn bike around and give Liz one last, frenzied romp against a wall in the DeLuca household, Maria and Amy be damned. Who knew? Maybe leaving Earth's atmosphere would calm him the _fuck_ down long enough to realize that this was a good thing, that this meant he didn't have to sneak around or lie anymore. Maybe Antar had a girl like Elizabeth Parker that would let him throw them around like his own personal toy, let him play and do as he pleased. Maybe he could watch the stars on the ride and compare it to the ones he always saw behind his eyelids when he slumped against Elizabeth Parker, her name a soft puff of air on his lips.

It was not until he was standing next to the Granilith, awaiting his departure, that the fucking itch popped up again.

Michael was _pissed_. To hell with reminiscing, this was _bullshit_! He'd made love—since 'fucking' Maria would be a bad thing, as she was his girlfriend… and entirely too picky to try anything other than missionary—to a virgin last night. A _virgin_! If he didn't cherish his manhood so fucking much, he'd rip it off and chuck it across the chamber, just to stop the inexplicable hunger that made his innards clench in anticipation. _You're gonna have to get over it_, he roared at the part of his anatomy that told him to get his ass back to Roswell and remind Parker why she had always sported a goofy grin on her face in the days before Alex's death, why she had stopped wearing those ridiculous panties, why she stopped _buying_ those ridiculous panties, why her eyes were always glazed and dreamy for hours on end, why she forgot the reason she'd been a panicked mess that night he found her alone in the eraser room. Why she forgot all about Maxwell Evans. The timer on the wall ticked down the minutes and the burn all but engulfed him in flames, crawling up his torso and down his arms into goosebumps that gathered into an annoying tickle in his palms.

He heard himself telling Max that he could not go with them, that he had a home here. On Earth. It wasn't a lie, but he'd purposefully forgotten to add "boning the shit out of Elizabeth Parker" at the end of his reason, which was just was well. Michael could not believe it had gotten this far; he was leaving his family, staying on as the only alien on this damned planet, for… of all the stupid, dumbass things he'd ever… _What the fuck was wrong with him?_

Surprisingly, his hormones had saved them. The truth about Tess' defection was troubling and put a damper on his original plan of finding and nailing Liz Parker in the middle of the street if he had to, but Max and Isabel were safe and would stay on Earth with him indefinitely. His _family_ was safe. The selfish relief of keeping his brother and sister with him on Earth was like cool sip of fresh water after a drought, calming enough to allow Maria her sweet fantasies of a boyfriend that wanted to stay for her; fantasies that did not include him banging her best friend, whom had not spared him a glance and currently stood frozen in the wake of Maxwell's vow of eternal love. Michael bit back a snort at his overly optimistic brother. Liz did not love Michael and she willingly gave herself to him on a golden platter whenever they found the opportunity, so what did that say about Max when she wouldn't even put out for the one she'd once called her soul mate? There were bleak times ahead for Max and Michael felt for him, but Michael has glad he did not have to worry about _love_ entering the picture when it came to the tiny brunette.

But Michael was wrong. _So, so_ wrong.

He'd managed to slip away from Maria after another round of making love with her, hoping against hope that it would not turn into a reoccurring thing as he was a brute in most areas of his life and holding back during the one exercise that he enjoyed most _because_ he didn't have to watch himself at all times was _not_ the best way to slake his desire. Pushing all thoughts of his blonde aside, he headed for his favorite balcony, climbing up the ladder with practiced ease.

She was sitting on her lawn chair, staring at her closed journal with blank, soulless eyes. "You slept with her," she accused, her voice weak and defeated.

Michael leaned against the low walls of the private veranda, crossing his arms. A chill went up his spine at the sight of her. "She's my _girlfriend_," he defended, though it did not sound as strong out loud as it did in his head.

Liz nodded, swallowing thickly as if she were afraid of speaking again. "But…" she shook her head. "_You slept with her_."

He barely heard the whisper. It struck something inside of him that, for once, was not the urge to slam her against something and lose himself in the warmth of her lithe frame… though, that would be nice, too. No, he knew what was happening, what had probably _been_ happening while he was happily ignoring the world and this exhausting turmoil called human emotions. What about No-Strings-Attached? Wasn't this a mutual understanding between them? Wasn't this all about them getting their fix and calling it a day—or an hour, whenever the need reared its head? "I never made you any promises," he said, staring at her, _willing_ her to look at him.

She bit her lip, reminding him of how she would nearly choke on her moans of delight when they were trying to be quiet. "I know," she croaked on a shuddery breath, tilting her head forward to cover her face with her waterfall of satin hair. She was _crying_. She was fucking crying and he didn't know what to do about it.

He sighed, agitated and torn in a million different directions. Michael watched her sob into her hands for several moments, not sure how long he could take watching her cry; her smile could light up a room with its innocent glow, her anger could tear a man to shreds, her passion could burn out the sun… but her tears brought a thunderstorm of discomfort. A man could drown in those tears. He only knew one way to distract her, could only offer this one, small consolation. It was all he _could_ give her and it was the closest thing she would ever get to what he knew she wanted from him. He crouched beside her, his large stature awkward in such a confined space. "For what it's worth," he murmured, pushing her chin up with a finger. Her hands fell away and revealed the cascade of tears that flowed down her cheeks, dripping off of her quivering chin. It was painful how beautiful she was, even as miserable and heartbroken as she must be. "I'm sorry."

She sniffled, and he found it oddly cute. "I _hate_ you," she spat at him, but her voice held no malice.

He kissed her tenderly then, soft and uncertain. "I know," he rumbled against her mouth. When that familiar spark ignited, the lawn chair was forgotten as he carried her to the brick wall behind them, his tongue slipping into her mouth. He was pleased she had not worn those infernal undergarments of hers beneath the silky nightgown, which meant she had known he would come to her tonight; it also explained why her skin was so cold and he hoped she had not lain here, waiting for him for who knew how long… but knowing her, she probably had. It made him want to throttle her for her stupidity.

She was still crying silently when he slipped between her slick folds, groaning in relief after such a long absence. She was sniffling and sobbing and moaning against his lips, surfacing for air when the need required and coming back for more. Her sadness did not stop her from obliging him, still that wonderfully receptive partner he'd come to appreciate in their many, many trysts. It would never, _ever_ be enough for her, and a piece of his heart cracked with the knowledge that he had somehow, somewhere along the way, given her the false hope that he could give her that everlasting endearment she so eagerly sought. He was not Max, he was not Kyle or even Sean DeLuca… all young men who had or would willingly give Elizabeth Parker that security she clutched like a lifeline… no, all Michael could ever give her was the promise of oblivion. He could _never_ promise her the sunrise, _never_ buy her flowers, _never_ hold her hand walking down the street. He loved Maria, and that was not going to change. Liz _had_ to understand that.

Biting her neck as wave after wave of soothing contentment rolled over him, he quietly promised her that he would stop this. Aside from this arrangement, they were still friends and he could not voluntarily hurt her like he was when he knew he could never fix this mess… but even he wasn't that naïve to believe he'd actually give her up. She felt too good, smelled too good, tasted too good for him to throw this away simply because he was trying to be noble and help her move on. It wasn't his fault Liz was addicted to love and he had never planned to let her believe this could be anything other than a union of sensual indulgence.

Michael had always believed Liz to be a smart girl. _Always_, even when he wanted to strangle her. Smart enough, at least, to know better than to fall in love with someone like him.

But love made fools of us all.

**END**


End file.
